Nesta's Giggles
by Nesta
Summary: A gaggle or giggle of short pieces originally posted on the Emny Arnen site. Not to be taken seriously.
1. Chapter 1

A busy day

_In which Faramir reflects on a fairly typical day in Ithilien. _

_Ohtar (imagined) is an elderly retainer, in charge of the Steward's house in Minas Anor. Mablung and Damrod are de-mobbed soldiers now turned farmer. Anborn, also de-mobbed, is Faramir's seneschal._

5.30 a.m. Rudely awakened by riotous children. I don't want them to be denied access to me, but there are limits. May have to insist they are confined to barracks at least until after breakfast. Éowyn says their devotion is very touching and so it is, but it would have been just as touching an hour later, and, as I forbore to point out at the time, it wasn't her chest they were sitting on.

7.00 a.m. Breakfast rather spoiled by bad news about the plumbing in the town house. No progress appears to have been made and we are due there at the end of the month. It was never satisfactory as far back as I can remember, but standards in Minas Tirith (sorry, Minas Anor – old habits cling) have risen since the War and I don't see why the family should have to put up with it any longer. We agreed to send message to Ohtar, enclosing large flea to put in ear and saying that if the problem is not reported fixed in ten days' time, we'll get the dwarves in. Éowyn says it's either that or she'll go herself, and while Ohtar is an inefficient ass, he's not as young as he was, I'm rather fond of him and I wouldn't want to expose him to my dear wife's wrath unexpectedly. Men have perished for less.

8.00 a.m. Deluged by correspondence about imminent visit of Haradian ambassador. The King seems to think it will soften him up if he is received here first, because I 'struck a chord' on my last mission there. I don't know about striking a chord – I felt my head wobbling on my shoulders every minute I was in the cursed place, and I have never looked into as many eyes blazing hate. Luckily they still seem to have a healthy respect for the wrath of Gondor, but we shall never get anywhere unless we can establish some sort of trust. Perhaps they perceived some honesty of purpose in me after all. On the other hand, an excess of obvious goodwill would be taken as a sign of weakness. Coo like a dove, watch like a hawk, is the way to go. _Mental note. _Must brush up my Haradian – not to use on His Ex., of course, but to listen in to any incautious remarks they let fall on the assumption I can't understand them.

9.30 a.m. Chaired opening session of discussions with trade delegation from the Shire. They are uneasy about competition from our growers who have taken to cultivating galenas, or pipeweed, as the Shire-folk quaintly call it. I can't abide the stuff myself, except as a garden flower, but now that the King has made smoking it fashionable, there's a huge market opening up and the Halflings not unnaturally think they should have the lions' share. On the other hand, we have an ideal climate for producing it here, and if we can supply the southern market with a quality product at a lower price, this seems fair enough to me; we have no plans at present for exporting it beyond the Misty Mountains, though I have seen the odd speculative gleam in a grower's eye when the prospect is mentioned. We shall either have to define separate markets, introduce quotas, or open the whole trade up to competition and see what happens. At the moment I'm open to suggestions. I wouldn't want to fall out with Master Samwise over it; we owe each other too much respect for that.

11.00 a.m. Another hearing in the Land Settlement Court. Mablung and Damrod are still squabbling about that strip of land between their two farms, the one with the freshwater spring. Each of them seems to have a sheaf of plans going back to the Second Age, showing the spring on his side of the boundary, and I'm dashed if I can tell which is the more reliable. I'm sick to death of the subject and am minded to cut the knot by confiscating the whole strip under the Prince's prerogative and making them both buy the water by the bucketful. However, justice must be seen to be done, so adjourned the hearing pending further evidence (confusion worse confounded). They'll be back next session, I have no doubt.

1 p.m. Lunch. Blessed period of peace cut short by messenger from Legolas, who is still unhappy about his last invoice for the water garden project. Told the messenger Legolas wasn't nearly as unhappy about the invoice as we are about the flooded cellars. Éowyn has promised to deal with this one and I'm quite prepared to let her loose on it. She knows Legolas better than I do, anyway.

2 p.m. Visited the school. Smallest children rather comical, as usual: paralysed by fright to start with, then gradually coming out of their shells until I was virtually mobbed, not that I mind that. In the higher classes there are some bright boys, and girls, coming on and their universal ambition seems to be to join our household. How we'll find room for them all I don't know, but we'll do our best. More trained staff will certainly be needed soon; the busier I get, the more I have to deputise, however regretfully.

3 p.m. Beregond came to report. He's still uneasy about the farms just below the Ephel Dúath and I can see why: we just don't have the men to patrol frequently enough to guarantee that area is kept secure from raids. I have warned every would-be settler individually that that is the case, but the fools never think it'll happen to them. They seem to have forgotten the nasty sights we saw in the very early years, and I'm not at all convinced the risk is over just because we've had a comparatively long period of quiet. There are some ominous rumours going round: dark shapes in the night, tracks leading back into the mountains, and so on. May be nine-tenths imagination, but can't be dismissed out of hand. I may have to ask the King's permission to seek some additional recruits from outside Ithilien.

4 p.m. Riding lesson for Elboron. The little varmint seems as intent on breaking his neck as ever – Boromir would have been proud of him. I'm afraid Éowyn rather encourages risk-taking as well; of course we don't want to cramp such a bold spirit, but a little caution must be introduced now and then. Otherwise I will perish prematurely from heart failure.

5.30 p.m. Petitioners. What was I saying just now about deputising? When we first came here I vowed that the people would always be able to approach me if they needed to, and I've kept to that, but it is getting out of hand (put it down to original inexperience and good intentions). While there are a good many small but genuine grievances which are better resolved here than in the courts (no more Mablung and Damrod, _please_), a good third of the people who came today seem to want no more than a cosy chat, and there is simply no time for it. Have told Anborn to weed them out more rigorously in future, but will have to watch him, or he'll be weeding out the whole consignment. He's always seen it as his duty to protect me from my own better impulses.

7.30 p.m. Bedtime story for the children. Left a dozen or so petitioners howling at the door, but this is one thing I am adamant about. I'm not having the children forgetting what their father looks like, and it could easily happen. As usual they clamoured for the undisputed favourite, i.e. Gollum and the Ring. I bless the day when Frodo (may his name be ever honoured) told it to me: it never fails, especially as it comes with my personal seal of authenticity. (How long ago it all seems now.) However, it's hard work in the telling and gets ever longer. This is entirely my own fault: once they knew the original riddles by heart, and would shout out the answer before I'd recited the riddle, I had the bright idea of inventing a new one, and since then I've had to add a new one every time and let them guess at it, which they are excruciatingly bad at, and use as an excuse to prolong the whole process indefinitely. Moreover, I've just about run out of riddles. _Mental note_: must think up a few more in my spare time. Spare time? If only.

Oh, and I must ensure they get a chance to meet Master Samwise. They'll be thrilled to bits.

8.30 p.m. Dinner. A formal one, which we hate – we scarcely ever get a quiet evening to ourselves. No help for it, however, because we are entertaining not only the Shire delegation but two councillors just arrived from Pelargir, which the King suspects of plotting something with that perpetual thorn in our flesh, Umbar. Two oh-so-polite, smooth, convivial individuals whom I'd trust just as far as I could throw them. As usual, a nice friendly invitation to Ithilien is considered a suitable softening up routine before they are exposed to the full glare of royal disapproval. The best way to soften up people like that is always to drink with them until they lose their caution. In the good old days Boromir and I had this to a fine art, when we wanted to pump somebody: he did the drinking and joviality and I did the watching and listening. In the morning they were always appalled to find out how much Boromir appeared to know, when he hadn't seemed in a fit state to remember anything the night before. He _didn't_ remember anything, of course, but I did. It's very useful sometimes to be the one that's overlooked. Doing the drinking as well as the thinking is much harder work – one of the innumerable reasons why I still miss my dear brother. Éowyn got the hobbits out of our way by taking them for a stroll in the garden. Lucky hobbits. Strolling in the moonlight with my lovely wife ought to be my prerogative.

1.00 a.m. Finally managed to drink the councillors under the table – at least, they were under the table. I was still upright, and considerably enlightened. I hadn't drunk nearly as much as they thought (there is an art to this), but it was still more than I wanted. I may be needing some of Éowyn's patent hangover mixture, ugh! – her rule seems to be the fouler it tastes, the better it works. Must dictate a memo on what the Pelargians let slip before I turn in. Hard luck on the duty secretary, but they are all used to it by now. Anyway, they get time off in lieu, which is more than I do. After that I had intended to start looking through papers for the Great Council, but just can't face it. It will have to wait till tomorrow, or whenever.

1.30 a.m. Bed. No, honestly, darling, I am just too tired … really … oh well, if you insist, perhaps not quite as tired as all that…


	2. Chapter 2

Negotiations

_This is a conversation between Faramir and his small daughter Fíriel. I haven't indicated who is speaking every time, because it's obvious. _

Shall I tell you the story of the boy who drank an Ent-draught and grew as tall as a tree?

Are Ents real?

Indeed they are. They keep Isengard for the King.

Have you seen them?

Yes, I have. Perhaps you'll see them too, one day.

What are they like? Like trees?

Yes, like trees that walk and talk.

Talk like us, or in tree-language?

Both, but tree-language only to each other. It's a very slow language, too slow for the rest of us. Now shall I begin the story, or shall I just say 'good night'?

If you said 'good night' in Ent language, how long would it take?

All night until dawn, I expect.

Shall we find an Ent and ask him?

Maybe, but not if it keeps us up all night. We'd have to find him early in the day.

But then he wouldn't say 'good night'.

There's logic for you!

What's logic?

Ask me tomorrow. I can't explain while you're sleepy.

I'm _not _sleepy. What do Ent voices sound like?

Very deep and booming and woody.

Talk like an Ent.

imitating Treebeard Hoom hoom, what have we here? Is this the naughty little girl from Emyn Arnen I've heard so much about?

He wouldn't say that, he'd be polite. And that's a silly voice.

It's silly for me, but I'm not an Ent.

If you were an Ent, what would I be?

An Enting.

How do Entings talk?

I don't know, I've never seen or heard one.

You said that in your sad-story voice. Is there a sad story about Entings?

Yes, too sad for bedtime. I'll tell you another day. Now choose a short story, because it's getting late.

Tell about Elves.

What about Elves?

About the Silmarils.

That's the longest story there is.

Tell about Halflings then. Halfling stories can't be as long as Elf stories, because Halflings are much smaller than Elves.

Hm! Not such good logic this time. What Halfling story do you want?

About how they met the king in disguise, in Bree.

That's the king's own story, and he tells it much better than I do.

But the king isn't here, and I like the way _you_ tell it.

You do, do you, little flatterer?

Yes. Tell it.

Very well. Do you remember who the Halflings had just said good-bye to?

Tom Bombadil. That's a very silly name.

He has another name. Iarwain.

I like that better.

Very well, we'll say Iarwain. Not long after saying goodbye to Iarwain, the Halflings…

No, don't tell that one. It has Black Riders in it, they're frightening.

That's true. We don't want to give you bad dreams.

Do Black Riders give _you_ bad dreams?

Yes, sometimes.

I'm sorry, Father. Let's not talk about them. Tell about Gollum and how he lost the Ring to Bilbo that was the Ringbearer's cousin that you met during the War.

Very well. But only three riddles each, and no new ones tonight. I've had no time to make any up.

That's a pity, but never mind. Tell the story.

…

… and he struggled and struggled, and suddenly, pop! What happened?

All his buttons bursted off!

Yes, so they did, all his beautiful brass buttons, and fell with a clink to the floor. So he escaped with no buttons to his waistcoat, and ran and ran until he would have been quite out of sight if he hadn't been invisible anyway, and all the goblins found was the buttons on the floor of the cave.

And was he sorry to lose them?

I'm sure he felt very untidy, but buttons are small loss if you escape with your life. And later, when he came home safe and grew rich, he had a waistcoat with _gold _buttons.

And what did the goblins do with the brass ones?

I think they brought them to the new Great Goblin, and said that they had slain the poor hobbit and taken his jewels as a trophy, but he had crept away to die. Which was a great lie, for we know he was safe and sound. And the new Great Goblin had them made into a necklace and wore it on special occasions, and I'm sure he looked very silly.

And Bilbo escaped with the magic ring that you saw later?

I never saw it, but I talked with Frodo who bore it, and he told me the story I have just told you.

It's a good story. Now tell about how you met Gollum.

There's no time for that. It's getting late. I'm going to ring for Morwen to take you to bed.

_No!_

Yes. And if you're naughty about it I shall get angry and perhaps smack you.

No you won't.

Don't try me too far.

Uncle Boromir wouldn't say I had to go to bed so soon, or get angry or smack me.

Uncle Boromir would have said exactly what I have just said, and he would smack you if you deserved it, and his hand was much, much heavier than mine. Now hand me the bell, I'm going to ring.

Kiss me goodnight first.

All right. Kiss kiss. And yes, you can hug me, but there's no need to strangle me. Ouch! let go!

Only if you promise to tell another story in the morning.

I'll promise, but only if you get down and go with Morwen, now, like a good girl.

I'm a good girl now.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ithilien _

This delightful principality, the second fief of Gondor after Dol Amroth (see under 'Belfalas, Bay of') lies between the River Anduin and the mountains of the Ephel Dúath. With its equable climate and gentle landscapes it is the ideal location for a quiet holiday.

_When to go there_: this is a year-round destination, but is perhaps at its best in springtime – the displays of wild flowers are famous. Northerners may find the summer temperatures uncomfortably high in the lowland areas. Winters are generally mild but may be wet.

_Getting there_: there is a regular ferry service to Emyn Arnen from the harbour below Minas Anor. For details of sailings contact the Minas Anor shipping office. A restricted service operates in winter.

_Accommodation: _as the principality is still in process of post-war restoration, tourist accommodation is somewhat limited. Camping is the most popular option and is permitted in most areas, but do be careful with fires in woodland and heathland. Lighting fires is prohibited altogether in dry summers – warnings are posted by the Ranger Service. Water is generally safe to drink, but do be careful near Minas Morgul (see below under 'Places to visit'). Some farms offer bed and breakfast on very reasonable terms, especially if you are willing to give a hand with farm work. You are warned that in areas near the eastern borders this may include repelling orc raids – take your sword. There is a youth hostel at Henneth Annûn: part cave accommodation, rough but adequate, lovely situation but extremely popular, so book in advance.

_Things to do_: walking and riding are the favourites. For a guided walks leaflet apply to the Steward's Office. Horses are available for hire locally. (Inexperienced riders are warned that most of these beasts come from Rohan and were originally bred as war-horses, so sit tight if somebody blows a war-horn.) Boating and swimming are also popular. Boat trips may be arranged locally, but you are advised _not _to accept offers from grey elven ships sailing down Anduin. There are reports of people accepting such offers and never being seen again. Elvish assurances that they have 'gone to a better place' are treated with suspicion.

Fishing is permitted in most lakes and streams, but hunting and shooting are strictly prohibited, except for rabbits which are something of a pest in the upland areas.

_Note_: a large woodland area in central Ithilien is a designated Elf Reserve and access is restricted. For permission to visit apply to Mr L. Greenleaf, c/o Elvish Affairs Bureau, Steward's Office.

_Places to visit_: Emyn Arnen is a must. The Prince's house is not open to the public, but parts of the grounds are usually accessible during daylight hours. The world-famous formal gardens are usually open when the family is not in residence, but tours are extremely popular and you should apply at least six months before you plan to visit.

Visitors frequently ask about tours of Minas Morgul/Ithil. At present it is regretted that the area is off limits. There are plans for redevelopment but these are extremely controversial, with some antiquarians demanding the conservation and restoration of the pre-Nazgûl city, whereas others want the latter preserved as a war museum, and at present the official plans envisage complete demolition. It is probably better not to raise the issue with the locals as feelings may run high. What is certain is that parts of Morgul Vale are extremely toxic, water sources are heavily polluted and you are advised to keep well clear.

_Hazards_: Ithilien is perfectly safe so long as you follow a few simple rules. Keep away from Minas Morgul (see above). If planning to visit the border area with Mordor, check that no raiding activity has been reported recently (contact Captain Beregond's secretary at White Company headquarters), keep your eyes open, and go armed.

_Dangerous animals_: there are persistent rumours of a stray Oliphaunt (_mumakus enormis_) which has been known to trample the incautious or helplessly drunk. Any sightings of this elusive beast should be reported to the Ithilien Wildlife Trust. You are advised not to approach it.

Large arachnids have occasionally been reported on the eastern borders. Their bite is seldom fatal but can cause temporary paralysis. Sufferers should be kept warm and allowed to recover naturally; this can take up to twelve hours. _Never _go alone into a spider-infested area.

_Festivals_:

_New Year's Day (Ringday)_: 25th March

_Coronation Day_: 1st May

These two festivals are celebrated throughout Gondor. For a full description see 'Gondorian celebrations' in the General Introduction. Festivals peculiar to Ithilien include:

_Moon festival_: this is held on the night of the first full moon in early spring and for obvious reasons, the date varies from year to year. For details contact the Steward's Office. Inveterate sleepyheads and parents with young children are warned that celebrations continue all night and may be noisy. You are advised to do what the locals do and join in. You can always sleep off the effects later. Hangover cures may be obtained from Lady Eowyn's store in Emyn Arnen. (Large choice always in stock.)

_Steward's birthday_: 25th September. This is a national holiday throughout Gondor but is of course celebrated with particular enthusiasm in Ithilien. Owing to the Steward's immense popularity a custom has arisen of presenting him with small birthday gifts. Visitors wishing to participate in this delightful custom may leave suitable items at the Steward's Office. They can be wrapped and labelled but not sealed, as they may be opened for inspection. Be warned that the Steward is extremely sensitive on the subject of bribery and any gift extravagant enough to arouse suspicion of attempted bribery will be returned. Rings, especially if carrying mysterious inscriptions, whether inside, outside or both, should be avoided. Rings conferring invisibility are definitely out. The Steward regrets that owing to pressure of business he is unable to acknowledge all gifts personally.

(Visitors from the Shire may find it surprising that gifts are given _to_ the person having the birthday, rather than _by_ him. In point of fact, the Gondorian custom is by far the commoner and has spread all along the Vale of Anduin; indeed it has been adopted by Halfling populations in that region. So go with the flow!)


	4. Chapter 4

The namesake

Scene: a reception room in the newly (or re-)built palace at Annuminas. Faramir, on a formal visit to Arnor, has been receiving courtesy calls from Very Important Persons all morning and has been on the whole politely bored, but he's rather looking forward to the next encounter.

_As the previous caller bows out, a penetrating whisper is heard from the anteroom._

_Pippin. _Bless us, child, whatever happened to your feet? Didn't you brush your toes this morning?

_Faramir Took_. Yes I did, dad, honestly

_Pippin_. Then how on earth…? But it's too late now, we're next. Whatever you do, just don't do anything to draw attention to your feet. And answer politely, or I'll know the reason why. (Inside the reception room, Faramir, with an effort, straightens his face and signals to the Majordomo to announce the next comers.)

_Faramir._ And before you open the door, take that grin off your face.

_Majordomo._ Er … sorry, my Lord. _(Flinging the door open.)_ The Thain of the Shire and Master Faramir Took.

_Enter Pippin and Faramir Took._ _Faramir senior (hereinafter 'P.o.I.') rises and bows ceremoniously. Pippin returns the bow with a flourish.) _

_P.o.I._You are most welcome to me, Master Peregrin, Master Took.

_Pippin.(pleased, but uneasy) _My lord!

_F.T._Do I bow too?

_Pippin (hisses frantically) _Yes, bow like I showed you.

(F.T. advances one foot, decides it's the wrong one, advances the other, then remembers that he isn't supposed to draw attention to either of his feet, wobbles dangerously, and straightens up, hoping this will do.) 

_P.o.I._ (_very careful not to notice F.T.'s feet) _Master Peregrin, I am delighted to be able to renew our acquaintance and to greet the new Thain of the Shire, and his son and heir. Do please sit down. And Master Took, come and sit by me.

(The P.o.I. and Pippin sit down. F.T. gives his father an embarrassed look. Pippin motions ferociously towards the low stool that has been put ready beside the Prince's chair. F.T. sidles up, perches uneasily on it and gazes gloomily at his feet.)

P.o.I. Peregrin, I hope you'll permit me to say a few words to my namesake before we go on to affairs of state.

Pippin.Of course, my Lord. (He gives F.T. an anguished look, but is sitting too far off to feed him replies.)

P.o.I.Now, Master Took, I am particularly glad to be able to talk to you today, because I understand you have just had a birthday.

F.T.(horrified at what he thinks is the implication) Oh, Sir Prince … I mean Lord Sir Steward – I mean your Lordship sir …(looking wildly round at Pippin) What do I mean?

P.o.I.(kindly) 'Sir' will do.

F.T. Oh sir, did you mean I should have brought you a present? Because they didn't tell me, honestly, sir, or I could have done easily, I could have brought you a mathom.

P.o.I.(understanding the word in its Rohirric sense) A mathom? A treasure? There was no need –

F.T.(interrupts him. Pippin groans audibly) No, no, a mathom isn't a treasure, it's something you've got no use for but don't want to throw away. We've hundreds and hundreds of them at home. Mother said last week that either some of the mathoms went or she did, so she'd have been pleased if I…

(Pippin writhes in agony. Faramir senior exerts considerable self-control and his face shows nothing but kindly concern.)

P.o.I.I crave your pardon, Master Took, for the misunderstanding. You see, in my country it's the custom for people to give presents to the person who has a birthday, not the other way round.

F.T.(brightening) Oh, that's all right then. Have you brought me a mathom?

P.o.I.Indeed I have. That is, it isn't something new, but it's something I hope you will like. See here.

(He brings out a small object wrapped in paper. F.T. takes it eagerly.)

P.o.I.Be careful, now.

(F.T. unwraps a small knife in a leather sheath. He stares at it with incredulous joy.)

F.T.A knife? A really truly knife? Mother said I wasn't to have one because I'd only cut my fingers off, but I can keep this one, can't I, if it's a present?

(Both Faramirs look round at Pippin, who gestures helplessly.)

P.o.I.Your mother needn't worry, I've had the blade blunted. It can always be sharpened later, when you're old enough not to cut your fingers off. But to make sure, once you've had a good look at it, I think you had better give it to your father for safekeeping.

F.T.(wails) Oh, sir!

P.o.I.(very softly) I really think you should.

F.T.Yes, sir. Can I take it out of the sheath now, if I'm careful? (Faramir senior nods.) Oh, it's beautiful. What is it made of? Is it gold at the top?

P.o.I.The blade is steel, the finest to be had in Gondor. The hilt is gilded – not pure gold. Pure gold would be too soft. And here (he points) can you see letters? Silver letters?

F.T.Yeees, I think so, but I don't know what they say.

P.o.I.You ought to, because it's your name. These are elf-letters, such as we use for fine writing in Gondor. Look carefully: f-a-r-a-m-i-r. See?

F.T.(awestruck) How did the letters get there?

P.o.I.I put them there. My brother gave me the knife, when I was a little older than you are now – old enough not to cut my fingers off – and not long after that, I learned a little about the art of engraving from a craftsman in our city, and engraved the letters of my name. They aren't perfect – can you see where the tool slipped a little? – but I was pleased with them, so I always kept the knife.

F.T. But you don't mind giving it to me?

P.o.I.Not at all, since we have the same name. Do you know the story of Frodo the Ring-Bearer, Master Took?

F.T.Of course I do. I know it better than anybody else in the Shire. I can recite…

(He takes a deep preparatory breath. Pippin, who has relaxed slightly, looks worried again.)

P.o.I.Not just now, thank you, Master Took. I was only going to say that if you know the story of how we caught the creature Sméagol at the Forbidden Pool and tied him up, this is the very knife that Frodo the Ring-Bearer used to cut his bonds afterwards.

F.T.This very knife? Really and truly? Cross-your-heart-and-

(Pippincoughs frantically. F.T. gets the message and closes his mouth abruptly.)

P.o.I.This very knife.

F.T.And I can really keep it?

P.o.I.You really can. But now you must re-sheathe it and give it to your father for safe-keeping, as we agreed.

(Reluctantly, F.T. does so. Pippin coughs even louder.)

F.T.Why are you coughing, dad? Oh yes, I remember. Thank you, sir, thank you very much.

P.o.I.Well, Master Took, I think it's time we said good-bye for the time being. I have matters to discuss with your father. (He gestures towards a small table on which reposes a fearsome document entitled 'Gondor/Arnor import-export quotas: Draft Regulations: item 233A: Pipeweed').

F.T.Must I go?

P.o.I.Yes, but we'll meet again soon, I am sure.

F.T.(to Pippin) Should I bow again?

P.o.I.(hastily) I think it would be better if we just shook hands.

(They do so)

P.o.I.(to the Majordomo) Please show Master Took out, and (very softly) keep an eye on him until his father is ready to take him home.

(Exit F.T. with Majordomo. Pippin meets Faramir senior's eye and blushes miserably.)

PippinSir … I don't know what to say … How can I apologise for my appalling offspring?

P.o.I.(gently) Peregrin, I think you are forgetting three things. No, four things.

PippinSir?

P.o.I.(smiling) Firstly, anyone can see that he is a good lad at heart. Secondly, I owe you too much to take offence at any thing or person belonging to you. Thirdly, you have relieved the tedium of a very long morning. And fourthly (here he positively grins) I have children of my own.

(Pippin grins back, but hesitantly)

P.o.I.You still look worried, Peregrin. Is there anything more I need to say?

PippinWell, no, my lord, that is, nothing to do with the last quarter of an hour. The problem is…

P.o.I.Well?

PippinTomorrow morning he has an audience with the King.

(This is too much. Faramir, whose gravity has been under a severe strain, starts to laugh helplessly. After a few moments Pippin joins in.)


	5. Chapter 5

A treat for the politically correct!

At last: What You Have All Been Waiting For: The Ultimate, Movie-Based, Entirely Politically Correct, Junior Novellisation of the Lord of the Rings.

No need to bother with three unwieldy volumes – this version has all you need!

Once there was a rather unpleasant and exceedingly large person called Sauron who made war against a collection of smaller and not so unpleasant persons, though some of them had funny haircuts. One of these people, not one of the ones with the funny haircuts though his beard could have done with a trim, cut off Sauron's finger with his ring on it and Sauron fell to bits.

Now this ring was awfully important because it made you very powerful and also invisible, though in Sauron's case it didn't make him invisible for reasons I'm not too sure about, but it did make him very powerful until he lost it, he could throw people about all over the place. The man with the beard, Isildur his name was, was told by one of the ones with the funny haircuts to throw the ring in a volcano and so get rid of it, but Isildur was a human being and human beings don't always do the best possible thing in all circumstances unless they're called Aragorn and have an even scrubbier beard, so Isildur kept the ring.

Many years later in a place with green grass and trees there lived a lot of little people called hobbits. By little people I don't of course mean to imply that being vertically challenged involves any kind of inferiority, nor does excessive hairiness about the feet. Well these little people who lived in holes, not that there's anything wrong with trogdolitism you understand, were having a party and had invited a larger person who was mostly beard, called Gandalf. Gandalf's special friend, by which I don't mean anything improper though of course if I had it wouldn't have been improper because we have to respect alternative lifestyles, was called Frodo and lived with his uncle Bilbo (repeat previous sentiment) in a hole (repeat last sentiment but one).

Well the party started and Gandalf let off lots of fireworks. It was OK for him because he was a wizard, but on the whole fireworks are not a good thing and you should never, never let any off yourself because people have been fatally burned that way. Go to an official display instead. As a matter of fact there were two naughty young hobbits at the party who did let off one of the fireworks shaped like a dragon and gave everybody a fright, though for some reason they didn't get burned. The firework was shaped like a dragon because Bilbo had had a run-in with a dragon a long time ago and as it happened, Bilbo had also got hold of the ring, and it did make him invisible though for some unfathomable reason not at all powerful, so he put it on and vanished.

(_Now read on. If you can bear it.) _


	6. Chapter 6

Crusaders

_Just a bit of fun. Wearing my medievalist's hat, I had this sudden vision of Boromir, Eomer, Aragorn and Faramir going on the Crusades, and this is what happens:  
_  
Boromir is 110 convinced of the rightness of the Christian cause, and arrives panting to get at the wicked unbelievers. He is shocked to find that there isn't an army waiting to set out, so to pass the time he leads a raid against the nearest Saracen emir, thus causing a diplomatic incident of mega proportions. He gets a rocket from Aragorn, but redeems himself by fighting magnificently in the Great Battle. After this he gets bored and goes off to find another war. Eomer is quite happy to leave the politics to Aragorn. He amuses himself with a pair of pretty Christian girls until Aragorn is ready to fight the Great Battle, in which he takes a prominent part. After the battle he carves himself a little principality out of conquered Saracen territory, settles down as Aragorn's vassal and starts sizing up the local maidens as potential marriage partners, providing they convert to Christianity and provide a substantial dowry. Aragorn, arriving, is annoyed to find that the local Christian settlers aren't getting organised. He organises them, cuts Boromir down to size, leads out an army and defeats the Saracens in the Great Battle. He thereupon crowns himself king of Jerusalem and dictates harsh but fair peace terms, reflecting with satisfaction that his success was predestined, as it was foretold by a number of prophets in the Old Testament that one of his bloodline would become a Tremendous Swell in the Holy Land. Faramir arrives and immediately notices that Saracens are not the fiends incarnate he's been taught to expect. He starts picking up a few words of Arabic and talking to the locals. He horrifies the other crusaders by acquiring and studying a translation of the Koran. He takes a key role in the Great Battle, but doesn't make a song and dance about it and so doesn't get the credit he deserves. He attends Aragorn's coronation, but, noticing that the papal legate is beginning to give him funny looks, he quietly packs up and goes home, not forgetting to take his Koran. The fascinating thing is that all the above actually happened at various times during the crusading period, _mutatis mutandis_.


	7. Chapter 7

The Reunion

_This was an impudent addition to a very beautiful ficlet by Nimloth about the reunion of Faramir and Eowyn in the Halls of Mandos. Sorry, Nimloth! _

(Scarcely have Faramir and Eowyn got over the first joy of reunion, than who should come sauntering up but Boromir.)

B. Oh, so you've got here, have you? You certainly took your time.

F. (bristling) And what exactly do you mean by that?

B. If you hadn't had that darned dream...

F. If you hadn't insisted on going yourself...

B. I thought you might not get through. F. I don't see why not. Anyway, you shouldn't have worked on Father to get your own way.

B. You shouldn't have let me.

(They glare at each other)

E. (breaking in) Now, if you two are going to spend all eternity squabbling, just tell me now so that I can start getting used to it.

Both brothers (simultaneously) I'm not squabbling, it's him.

F. You might say you're glad to see me.

B. You might say you missed me all those years.

(A pause)

B. Well, I suppose I am.

F. Well, I suppose I did.

(The glares turn slowly into grins.)

E. Well, there you are then.

(The two brothers embrace as Eowyn looks on benevolently)


	8. Chapter 8

A tongue lashing

_This was originally part of an AU 'Faramir goes to Rivendell' fanfic jointly written by Nesta and Peredhel on the Emyn Arnen site. _

Let's get this straight. We've lost Ithilien and the whole east bank; we've lost the bridge; we've another twenty miles of riverbank to patrol; we're expecting a full-scale assault any time; and you're telling me that you want leave of absence because of a bit of doggerel, and because you've had a dream? …

I don't care how many times you've had it. You want to go and look for a broken sword, in a place we've never heard of and which may not even exist? And this singularly useful weapon apparently keeps company with 'Isildur's bane' and a creature out of a nursery tale? …

We know what killed Isildur. He was slain by an orc-arrow, and if you want one of those, you don't need to travel far, just take a short walk along to Osgiliath and you can have a thousand of them, all to yourself. …

Well if it doesn't mean that, what does it mean? … No, it's not worth finding out. I'm not interested in satisfying your curiosity, I'm interested in fighting this war. …

Did the old wizard finally succeed in addling your wits on his last visit, or were they washed out of your head during our little bathing party? … I'm telling you you can't be spared. Not now, not later, not at all. We no longer have an eastern force, in case it's escaped your notice, and that means the only way we can operate east of the River is by stealth, and that means the Rangers, and the only person who can handle that bunch of green-clad mavericks is you. I gave you a free hand with them, and what's the result? You impose a set of crazy rules that they all seem to take as words of the Valar; you train them in methods no one else can make sense of; you send them as spies where no sane man would venture; you run their heads into a never-ending series of nooses and yet they eat out of your hand. In fact, you've made them into a tool that nobody can use but you, and now you're proposing to hand it back to me and go off on a walking holiday? Or were you planning to take them all with you in case you got lonely? Look, without your spies we're blind, and without your reports, I can't make sense of what your spies bring back. …

No, it's not just the Rangers. I can't be everywhere at once. There's Osgiliath. They've got their heads on the block there, they're scared witless and I don't blame them. I need to be there, and even so, if that Black Shadow, or whatever it was, makes another appearance we won't hold them. And if we try to hold Osgiliath we'll have to hold Cair Andros, or they'll simply turn our flank. I'll need you there. …

Yes, we've got Turgon at Cair Andros, and Turgon's useless, I wouldn't trust him to defend a sand-castle against a falling tide. Then there's the confounded Rammas that has to be finished and provisioned and manned by people who know an arrow from a bow and which end of a spear is the sharp one. There's the City itself. … Of course Imrahil will come, and bring every man he can, even if he has to leave Amroth to burn behind him, because Father's his liege lord and we're his sister's sons, but he'll be needed in the City. As for the other fiefs, just imagine what you'd like them to send and then divide it by ten, because that's what we're likely to get. And I can't work with any of them like I can with you. I need someone who knows how I work. I need someone who knows how I _think_. Someone they trust. Someone they'll follow. …

I know it's not enough, isn't that what I'm telling you? …

Quite likely they will overwhelm us in the end, but if they do we'll go down fighting, not telling each other _nursery tales_. …

By all means go to Father if you like, but he'll just send you back to me with a flea in your ear. …

I'm not quarrelling with you. I'm telling you you're wrong, I'm telling you you're not going, and I'm telling you to get out of my sight, now, before I throw something at you…

After which, of course, Boromir had the dream...


	9. Chapter 9

In the library 

_This was another bit of the AU fanfic_

Scene: the library at Rivendell. It is empty except for Faramir, who is seated in an alcove poring over a book and occasionally making a note on a sheet of paper. Enter Bilbo, muttering to himself.

B.Oh, is someone there? I'm sorry if I disturbed you, I was looking for a book...

F.(politely, looking rather hopelessly round the tiers of stacked shelves) If you would tell me which book, I might be able to help you.

B.Well, I meant my own book, don't you know. _Translations from the Elvish_.

F.Ah, you mean this one? I found it open on the desk here and started to browse in it; I hope you don't mind.

B.Oh, no, not at all. I'm pleased to see someone take an interest. I thought I might go on with it, while poor young Frodo is closeted with Elrond and Gandalf; there isn't much I can do to help them, I'm afraid. I set the book aside for a day or two, while I got on with some poetry, but now…

F.(who had to blow a considerable quantity of dust off the book before starting to read) I quite understand.

B.I hope you can make it out. My handwriting is rather poor, I'm afraid, and it seems to get worse as I get older.

F.(still polite, but also truthful) Well … I have had some practice in deciphering crabbed hands.

B.I shall have a fair copy made of it, of course, when it's finished. Er … do you like it?

F.I find it admirable, but there are times when I'm puzzled by what you write. Here, for instance, you say that Tuor sailed with Idril into the West and is numbered with the Noldor, but as I heard the tale, Tuor died and was buried on the shores of Middle Earth, and it was only the memory of him that Idril carried with her into the West, since no mortal may set foot on the Undying Lands. Now…

B.(nettled) I can assure you that my version is the correct one.

F.What was your source?

B.I had it from an Elf who was with Tuor at the fall of Gondolin and saw his ship leave from the havens.

F._Gondolin_? You have spoken with someone who remembers _Gondolin_?

B.(snorts) Weren't you at the Council? Didn't you hear Elrond say that his memory reaches back to the Elder Days? He's not the only one here whose memory goes back that far. If you don't believe me you can ask them yourself.

F.(hastily) Of course I believe you. You must remember how strange it is for a mortal man to keep such company. It will be some time before I can persuade myself that I'm not dreaming.

B.(slightly embarrassed, changes the subject) You write a fair hand yourself, I see, though I can't quite make out … my eyes are not what they were.

F.That? It's what they call the Steward's hand. They began to teach it me as soon as I was old enough to hold a pen. What you see isn't the pure version, though; it's a contracted form I use for making notes.

B.A good way of keeping secrets, eh?

F.(gesturing to the almost indecipherable page he has been studying) Almost as good as yours.

(Their eyes meet and both start laughing.)

B.Ah well, please make free with the book. To tell you the truth, I find the writing rather wearisome these days; I really prefer writing poetry, and listening to other people tell tales. I dare say you could tell a few tales yourself – about battles you've been in, perhaps?

F.Battles?

B.Yes, a battle can make a rare tale, or a fine song.

F.I dare say it can. Better in the telling than in the reality. I'm sure a fine song could be made of my last battle: _How the sons of Denethor held the bridge until it was cast down behind them and they barely escaped with their lives. _And we did escape, leaving twenty good men dead behind us. (bitterly) Doubtless such a song would have been a great consolation to their wives and children, afterwards. (more calmly, after a pause) But it does no good to talk like that.

B.(sympathetic, but a little uncomfortable) I was in a battle myself once.

F.And what battle was that?

B.The Battle of Five Armies. You must know about that, everyone does.

F.I'm afraid I don't know much. In Gondor we know shamefully little about what happens outside our own borders. Perhaps you could tell me about it.

(Bilbo settles himself comfortably in a chair and tells the tale, at considerable length and rather ramblingly; Faramir listens patiently, and with genuine interest.)

F.And this battle … you found it glorious?

B.To tell the truth, I didn't play a very glorious part in it, in fact I put on the ... well, I disappeared at an early stage, don't you know.

F.You put on the Ring?

B.Yes…

F.This Ring … I understand you possessed it for many years?

B.Oh, many years.

F.And it did you no harm?

B.Towards the end it preyed on my mind a bit; that's why I got rid of it, as old Gandalf advised. It came in very useful at times, though. And it's a beautiful thing, as you saw at the Council.

F.Yes, I saw it. And I hope never to see it again.

B.(surprised) Really? (confidentially) I miss it myself. It's a great pity it has to be destroyed, but there we are. Do you know, they won't let me as much as touch it any more, though it still belongs to me really. I won it fair and square, as you heard at the Council – no cheating. Unless you believe that the Dúnadan ought to have it, but he's never asked me for it, or Frodo either.

F.The Dúnadan – Aragorn – ought to have it, as Isildur's heir?

B.Yes, and as heir to the Kingship.

F.Ah. '_Renewed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king._' You wrote that, I believe?

B.Oh yes.

F.(softly) And which crown shall he wear as king?

B.The crown of Gondor and Arnor.

F.Gondor _and _Arnor?

B.(expansively, as one with inside knowledge) It has to be both, you see. 'She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor.' That's what Elrond told him.

F.She?

B.The Lady Arwen.

F.The Lady Arwen? Elrond's daughter? But she is of elven-kind, surely?

B.Well, of course. That's why…

F.I see.

(He stares ahead of him, digesting this information. Long pause. Bilbo starts to nod, then comes to with a jerk.)

B.Wait a moment. You're from Gondor, aren't you? And your father is…

F.Yes.

B.I shouldn't have told you.

F.Perhaps not.

(They look at each other for a long, awkward moment. Blessed relief comes with the ringing of a bell in the distance.)

B.Ah, the dinner bell. Always a welcome sound to a hobbit. If I said anything out of turn, please forget it and forgive me.

F.It is I who should ask your forgiveness. I think I understand a good many things better now.

B.And you'll be friends with the Dúnadan, I hope. He's always been a good friend to me, and to Frodo. We can't get along without him, you know.

F.I'll remember what you say. And Bilbo –

B.Yes?

F.Thank you.


	10. Chapter 10

Urgent phone call

_This emerged from a discussion of how one should, or rather shouldn't, update LoTR. _

Scene: the slopes of Mount Doom. Sam is struggling upwards when his mobile phone plays a short phrase from the Star Wars theme.

Sam (hoarsely): Sam here. Who's that?

PHONE: It's Ara... s ... thorn sometimes known as ...ssar, Chief of the D... and heir to the thrones of Gon ... and ...rnor.

Sam: what was that? Sorry, reception's very bad here, must be the electrical disturbance from the eruption. Is that Strider?

PHONE: Yes, how are you ...ting on?

Sam: I think we're almost there, but Boss Frodo looks bad.

PHONE: ...dalf says to look out for Go...um.

Sam: You're telling me! How are you getting on with the diversionary tactic?

PHONE: not bad, looks as if the fi ...te.

Sam: What?

PHONE: LOOKS AS IF THE FI ...TE.

Sam: WHAT?

PHONE: IT LOOKS AS IF THE FISH WILL BITE.

Sam: What fish?

PHONE: Never mind. We'll try and keep the Nazgul ...your hair.

Sam: You do that. Here come the Cracks of Doom, they say not even Vodafone works in there, call you back later. Byee!...

(Gollum jumps him.)

GOLLUM: Got you, you nassty little sneak! Stole my mobile, it did! And a nice shiney one with full Internet compatibility, preciousssss!

(The vision fades, and not before time.)


	11. Chapter 11

This, exceptionally, is not a Faramir story, but there were other long-suffering people around in Middle Earth… so here is

**Halbarad's story**

_Halbarad speaks from Rohan _

How did I get here? You may well ask.

The story goes back much further than Galadriel's message. Being deputy Chief Ranger to Cousin Aragorn never was any kind of sinecure, I can tell you. Rangers are solitary at any time, and can be darned elusive, but Aragorn was elusiveness personified. Whenever things got busy, or sticky, or dangerous, where was Aragorn? Gone, that's where. It was always like that, ever since I qualified as a Ranger way back in '92, and I can remember my father grumbling about the same thing years before that. Sauron publishes his manifesto, orcs swarm everywhere, dark things creep out from every houseless hill between Rivendell and the _Prancing Pony_, and where's Aragorn? Undertaking great journeys and errantries away south to impress Miss Semielvish Arwen, who won't accept any credentials short of multiple kingship. It may have been nuts for the southerners – who have whole fortified cities crammed with trained troops, from what they tell me – but what about us poor overstretched northerners? Fifty of us when at maximum strength – which we never were, what with sick leave and vacations and hangovers and the rest – to cover every square inch of land between the Mountains and the Sea! Is that a logistical nightmare or what?

And to crown all, just when I'm tearing my hair over the latest duty roster, in waltzes His High and Mightiness and says crisis is upon us, Sauron has designs on the Shire, double the guard on it. Can't be done, say I. Has to be done, Hal, old man, says he. (I hate it when he patronises me.) Cancel all leave, he says, put everyone on watch and watch and accept no sick notes as an excuse for anything short of really serious death. Fine, say I, and tear up the roster and re-write it with Cousin Aragorn on watch and watch. Can't be done, says he, I've got to go. You've only just come back, say I. Too bad, says he, I have to look for somebody. Who's that, say I. I don't know, says he. Where is he supposed to be, say I. Haven't the faintest idea, says he. How long will it take, says I. As long as it has to, says he, and buckles on his ridiculous half-a-sword and gambols off into the wilderness, not to be seen again for a decade.

Well, somehow we did it. We guarded that smug, comfy little country day and night for seventeen long years, wearing ourselves to skin and bone, and what thanks did we get for it? You've guessed it – none. And just when I'm thinking it can't get any worse, I get a message from that interfering old thorn in the flesh and crony of Cousin A., our friendly neighbourhood wizard, viz. _Nazgul on the prowl STOP Suspect they may be taking an interest in the Shire STOP Double the guard again STOP Urgent STOP Gandalf. _Now by that time I'd scraped out the rangerly barrel, and all I could think of was to try to enlist the Hopeless Halflings in their own defence. So I ride up to the Brandywine Gate and beg the gatekeepers, almost on my bended knees, to keep watch night and day and not let anybody through who measures more than four feet in his socks. And what happens? I come along the very next morning and say, did you keep watch? And they say, sort of. And I say, what does that mean? And they say, it got chilly about midnight so we turned in. And I say, did you let anyone through? And they say, only a couple of horsemen, nobody to speak of.And I say, what were they like? And they say, black, foreign-looking, didn't like the look of them much. And I say, can I take a detachment into the Shire and look for these foreign gentlemen? And they say no, they can manage thank you. And I start to feel very, very tired, and I go home and have the 'flu for a fortnight, because I reckon I've earned it.

And while I'm sneezing and shivering, the whole thing boils over and Cousin A., with his usual genius for taking all the credit while avoiding the hard work, strolls back into Bree just in time to snatch a bunch of particularly irresponsible hobbits (which is saying something, I can tell you) from the jaws of the Black Riders that said hobbits were doing their best to fling themselves into, and takes them to Rivendell just in time to get the plaudits and the banquets and the languishing looks from Miss Arwen, while the rest of us go back to combating nasties out of the houseless hills. And Aragorn disappears again down south, with Gandalf and said bunch of hobbits. Good riddance, say I to myself, that'll take the pressure off us here, and I celebrate with a few pints of Butterbur's finest draught (it's improved a lot lately) and sleep it off under the table before going back to the nasties out of the houseless etcetera.

Which would have been fine if we'd been left in peace to do it, because after a lifetime's experience with nasties out of the houseless etcetera, you get kind of used to them and you learn to say 'Boo!' in a way that makes them run like rabbits. But were we left in peace? Of course not. A few weeks go by and we get a message from Arwen's goldenhaired Granny to say that Aragorn wanted every last Dúnadan to join him in Rohan. So much for defending innocent northerners against nasties out of the houseless etcetera. If Chieftain Aragorn is in a spot of trouble, it's Rangers to the rescue and Nazgul take the hindmost. Sorry, Shire, sorry, Bree, you'll have to make out on your own and perhaps, just perhaps, that'll teach you to be grateful for what we've been doing for you, for the first time ever.

So I send urgent messages here, there and everywhere, darn the chain mail, polish the ceremonial sword, ransack the countryside for edibles and it's all aboard for the jolly journey over the Misty Ms. Thirty of us, there were, because that's all of us that could be contacted in the forty-eight hours which was the time-limit imposed by Arwen's gran. Oh, and the Terrible Twins, of course, Elrond's brats, who spend their indistinguishable lives trying to be Aragorn, as if he'd be more bearable in triplicate. And I mustn't forget Aragorn's special personal steed, because although Rohan has been specialising in horses since forever, they apparently don't have a single one that's worthy to carry his High and Mightiness, and a nice arm-wrenching job I had leading the horrid beast over the mountain passes, I can tell you. Oh, and as if that wasn't enough useless clutter, we had to take a pretty embroidered flag that Miss Arwen had been working on for the past couple of centuries as a present for her sweetheart. No accounting for taste, is there?

So we dematerialise from the north and just pop up in Rohan, do we? If only. If I told you everything that happened on that journey, we'd be here till the middle of next week. I could try to sum up, viz. Day 1: howling blizzard. Day 2: attacked by wargs. Day 3: attacked by crows (don't laugh, these are supercrows and they pack a peck, by golly they do). Days 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8: attacked by Orcs. Day 9: attacked by wargs, crows and orcs. Day 10: attacked by Rohirrim, who seem quite unable to distinguish between friends and foes, silly … riders that they are. Day 11: we finally catch up with Cousin A. Does he say, welcome? Does he say, all praise to Halbarad for his epic journey worthy to be remembered in song forever? Does he heck. Hello, he says, I wasn't expecting you, hope you haven't left things in too much of a mess back home, how many men have you brought with you? Thirty, say I. Is that all, says he. That's all there were, say I. Oh well, says he, I dare say I could have done better, but you might just come in useful, is that my horse you've got there. Yes, say I. You needn't have bothered, says he. I'll murder you and feed you to the wargs, crows and orcs, say I. No, I didn't really say that, but by golly I thought it.

Then he introduces us to the local kinglet, a quite decent old fellow who was, for a change, quite polite to us, and off we all go to his house, and just when I'm thinking that I might get a decent night's sleep for the first time since forever, in comes Cousin A. and says get up, we're going on a journey. Where to, say I. To Minas Tirith, says he. That's nice, say I, always wanted to see the place. There's a snag, says he. I might have known it, say I, tell me the worst. There's a few hundred thousand orcs and wild men between us and it, says he. Makes a change, say I. We're not going that way, says he, we're going via the ghosts. Heck, say I, do they have houseless hills in the south as well. And how, says he, and after the ghosts it'll be corsairs, and after the corsairs we'll tackle the orcs and wild men, oh and the Nazgûl, of course. How lovely, say I, when do we start? Now, says he.

So here I am, packing for ghostland. What wouldn't I give for a pint and a ploughman's, back in Butterbur's amiable establishment in glorious Breeland! But it'll be a long time before I get the chance again – if I ever do.


End file.
